


Echoes

by spacemonkey



Category: U2 (Band)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-24
Updated: 2019-06-24
Packaged: 2020-05-19 01:20:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,475
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19346650
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spacemonkey/pseuds/spacemonkey
Summary: They won't talk about it, but Bono and Edge share a few concerns during the recording of Pop. Set in early 1997.





	Echoes

**Author's Note:**

> Hi all, it's nearly 3am here but I had to get this up. This fic has been haunting me for the past week and I'm so glad to get it done so I can concentrate on other things, because yes. It's a bit of an angst fest, but I feel like it needed to be as I always felt that Bono's voice issues in the late 90s would have caused more grief than they ever let on as a band. I mean, they've discussed it but yeah, it's usually skimmed over in a couple of paragraphs, and I don't think any of us ficcers have delved into the recording of Pop where Bono's voice would be normal some days, then completely gone on others, apparently. ANYWAY, just felt like I needed to expand on that in fic because I am a terrible human being who dares to write about real people and make them sad but also kiss and stuff okay love you all I am a grown up bye xxx

Recently, it feels like  _madness_ is the only word that comes to mind.

But right now, as Edge sits at the perfect vantage point, one that allows him to see the concealed strain, the wrongness that has overstayed its welcome, he finds fear to be the ideal accompaniment to that seven-letter word.

It’s only a creeping notion, but given time and fuel to the fire, it may yet prove to make a goddamn mess of everything in its path. Is it warranted? Perhaps, perhaps not, though things do seem to be getting worse instead of better.

Where is that confidence? Where is that man who could add so much more colour to the world with one show-stopping vocal, having only perfection on his mind?

Today, and yesterday, and parts of last week, there has been a struggle to hit those notes. There’s no rhyme or reason to it. On Friday, Bono was singing like a bird, smiling like his life had settled back into picture-perfect order. Now, however, his voice is just gone and he knows it, and he knows everyone else knows it, and yet there he is still, clutching his microphone like he’s trying to do some damage as he fakes it for those who don’t know him quite like Edge does.

“Is your throat bothering you?” he’d tentatively asked Bono at some point during the previous week, confident it was a dangerous question. But unfortunately, one that had to be raised.

“Fucking everything is bothering me,” Bono had snapped back, and then it’d been on with the show. Later that night, though, he’d pulled Edge in for a spontaneous and lengthy hug—an apology of sorts, and a means of comfort. For himself, certainly, though Bono is nothing if not empathetic to the wants and needs of others during a time of crisis.

That creeping fear in Edge’s mind is for Bono, of course. But it’s also for the band, the people who rely on them. And for Edge himself.

What is he, if his singer can no longer sing? Would he be destined to knock on a few doors until he found some other band willing to take him in? Could he even bring himself to stand beside another man and put on a show, fake a believable smile?

Could he just walk away from Bono?

It’s a question that has a single answer, one that has never and will never change, no matter what. But on days like this, it’s hard to put it from his mind. He wishes he could.

He wishes for a lot of things today. Time, answers, and more time.

Edge can worry all he wants, but it’ll get him nowhere. And deep down, he knows it’s just an excuse. A distraction. Something to keep his mind off how truly fucked they might be in other facets of their professional life. This album, this upcoming tour. There are simply not enough days in the week for them. Each glance toward any clock or calendar makes him want to scream. To call them stressed would be an understatement.

Madness. That’s almost all there is to it. It’s laughable to think back to how they’d been at the start of this recording process, so chill that some might have imagined the two of them failing a specific drug test. But look at them now.

 _Disaster_ is another word that comes to mind.

It’s getting too late in the day, yet when the take finishes Edge leans in from his perfect vantage point and quietly asks, “Do you want to take a break?”

Bono, for his part, looks over as though Edge just suggested they sell his dogs to the lowest bidder. “Do you think we have it?”

“No, but—”

“Then why bother suggesting we stop?”

It’s an argument that Edge could never win. He knows this, because he’s lost so many times in the past. So he doesn’t try this time, though he doesn’t leave either. He should. His fingers are itching to pick up his guitar and attempt to bring out some actual personality in a song or two before the night ends, or listen to a few playbacks and pinpoint all the resounding thuds that either need a good kick up the arse or to be cut entirely. There’s so much he could be doing, but he can’t just leave Bono alone.

Soon enough, though, he’s left with no choice. A phone rings, and keeps ringing until it cannot be ignored anymore. As it turns out, they’ve been at it for hours—too long, for some.

Edge is lucky, in a way. His girls are with their mother, and Morleigh is currently in another country. His family has no need for him right now. Can Bono say the same?

Apparently not, if his expression is anything to go by as he murmurs all the right things over the phone. They’re past the point of being able to duck in and out of the studio whenever they please, to go at a leisurely pace, and yet a balance still must be found.

“Duty calls,” Bono grimly says upon hanging up, glancing over at Edge like he’s expecting a row.

It doesn’t come. Today, Edge knows he’ll be thankful to see Bono walk out that door. To go home and be relieved of all the responsibilities, all the strain that’s been weighing him down these past couple of weeks, even if that respite only lasts one evening.

There are a few things he wants to say to Bono—careful questions, whispered suggestions, a tired _do you remember when we could actually pull this shit off?_ accompanied by a litany of examples that showcase only the successful moments of their career, leaving any ugliness in the dust where it belongs.

Instead, he simply responds with, “Well, you better answer then.” And that’s that. They’re done for the night, splitting into two once again until it’s time for another round of _we could be on a fucking beach in France right about now, but here we are instead, trying to make magic in a world where every magician is a hack_. “See you tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow,” Bono echoes, his voice hoarse. “Yeah.”

He makes no move to leave, however, and in his hesitation, it seems as if he’s gearing up to say something profound to Edge. That, or make a lewd proposition or two. It could go either way with Bono some days—most days—and he’s not above whispering in Edge’s ear when they are not alone. Like now.

Has Bono forgotten that there are other people in this studio? It’s possible, maybe even plausible, but either way, it would make not a lick of difference.

God, if only Edge could've known the troubles he would have in life when he made that first move all those years ago (he knew, of course he knew, and it’s partly why he had to kiss Bono that night under the stars).

It takes another few seconds of staring at each other for Bono to come back into awareness, and then he is off with a regretful smile, fumbling for his pack of smokes with one hand, throwing a wave behind him with the other.

As always, the studio feels suddenly empty in his absence, as though he’s taken half its soul with him. And who knows, maybe he has?

Certainly, its pulse has weakened considerably. A beating heart reduced to a faint flutter. What is it about that man that turns Edge into a wannabe poet?

It’s not where his head should be right now. Clear the mind, find a melody and stick with it. Focus, just focus.

He’s almost successful. But distraction is in play, as is frustration, and right now, shit just doesn’t seem to be working for him as it should. Past experiences, however, have shown him that keeping at it is the key.

He’ll keep at it until his fingers bleed if that’s what it takes, until this fucking album is done, and not just done by the record company’s standards, but by _his_. Eventually, there has to be a breakthrough. Or a breakdown. Really, the lot of them should be shot for allowing Paul to book a tour before the album was finished.

Diamonds may be made under pressure, but the same can be said for a crap record.  

But he keeps at it, hopefully giving off the visage of a man with a plan, one that has seen the future and knows for a fact that they’ll be alright. A number one hit, a wheelbarrow full of Grammys. A sold out and critically acclaimed tour. If he wishes hard enough, maybe he might turn into a prophet. And if he focuses hard enough, perhaps he’ll unlock the mystery that is this record, and give it a personality, all while managing to slow down time long enough to get it done.

That, or his brain explodes. Either/or would be quite welcome right now.

Somehow, Edge manages to ignore the goings on around him. A few select people poking their heads in and out, hurried conversations that he likely should join in on, but doesn’t. And maybe that makes him an arsehole, or even a driven genius-type (unlikely), or something that falls between the two. Who knows, and who could care? Not him. The night isn’t getting any younger, and he can’t fucking concentrate like he needs to.

If he were to engage the others right now, he might very well raise his voice and keep it that way for a time—quite unlike him, or so people keep saying.

Yet it’s a different story entirely when his mobile phone rings. For a moment, he does consider ignoring it, even if a part of him is secretly glad for the interruption. But whether it be his spidey sense or past happenings showing the odds of who is calling being skewed favourably toward a certain someone—because isn’t it always him?—Edge just knows he’ll regret not picking up. After all, it’s been well over an hour since he heard Bono’s voice, and right now, it’s almost all he needs to make life good again.

“I’m on my way to your house, Edge,” Bono says by way of hello. He’s in the car, obviously, sounding rather strange. A little down, perhaps, or just over the bullshit. Edge can relate. “So you better meet me there.”

It’s tempting to argue, but Edge knows there’s no point to it. He’ll never win. And why would he want to right now? It’s a terrible choice, leaving when there’s so much work still to be done tonight, but really, he’s glad for the excuse. Any minute now, that vein in his forehead will start to throb, unless drastic measures are taken.

He leaves. Just like that. He’s not even sure if he says goodbye to anyone. They’ll realize, and wonder, and tomorrow he’ll slink back in and pretend as though nothing of the sort happened, and they won’t bring it up with him. Edge knows this from past experiences. That said, up until now it’s never happened during the recording of this record.

The clock catches his attention once he’s in the car. Well over an hour? That’s lowballing it. Where did that time go? Did he manage to get _anything_ done? It’s possible, maybe even plausible, and yet he cannot remember a goddamn thing that happened between Bono leaving the studio and Bono sweet-talking Edge to do the same.

Time has this habit of just shooting on by, and one day soon Edge is going to have a very stern talk with it about that. But not just yet. Not now. There are other things to worry about. The future, certainly, but that can wait until it’s in full bloom. Right now, Edge is most concerned with the present.

He takes a few shortcuts on the way home. There is a chance he might even have put his foot down once or twice, though he would valiantly deny ever doing so if questioned by someone who was not the law. Who would believe him? Almost everyone, of course. Everyone but Bono.

And there he is. Illuminated only by Edge’s headlights as he paces in the yard—never a good sign. But he stops his restless wanderings to shrug and smile as Edge brings the car to a standstill.

For a moment, they simply stay where they are and look at one another.

There’s a specific tension that hangs about during times like these, that can leave Bono explosively calm and Edge unsure of himself—who he once was, who he is now and the man he wants to be in the future. Some days, he imagines a tripwire that’s being stretched to its limit. One false move and the fucking building is coming down.

It is Bono that moves first this time, as is often the case, but not always.

Not always.

It’s a casual amble that he chooses as he makes his way over, as though nothing is amiss, everything is fine and they’re just here to discuss what off-white paint they prefer for the en suite. He shouldn’t be here, but he is. Because, somehow, he always knows what is needed.

Thank Christ one of them does.

Edge leaves the engine running as he opens his door to let the evening breeze in, but he doesn’t get out. Not yet. He needs to work up the energy to move after spending all day on his arse.

“What took you so long?” Bono asks.

“It’s not exactly a two-minute drive from the studio to here.” Edge pauses, contemplating as he looks Bono up and down. “Have you been waiting in the dark this entire time?”

“Our world will never be completely dark, Edge, as long as we have the moonlight,” Bono replies in that curious and endearing way of his. “But no. I was holed up in my car for a time, flicking through the stations and taking in all the hits, as one does. But there’s only so much Spice Girls a man can handle, you know?”

“Agreed,” Edge says, and kills the engine.

It’s always a little daunting when Morleigh visits her family in America. A reminder that this house is far too big for one person. Actually, it’s too big for two people, but that’s neither here nor there.

Tonight, he can still hear their footsteps echoing through the room as they come in from the cold, yet he’s not bothered by it in the least. Bono has brought with him a beating heart in full, enough to fill an empty home to the brim. It’s just what he does.

They take their shoes off, kick them haphazardly to the side, then look at each other. Incredible. Somehow, that smile of Bono’s transports them back to another time, one where they had the world within their grasp and a whole slew of days and nights ahead of them that could and would be spent drinking on the beach and fucking inside a house that they both could call home.

And then he is off once again. A ball of restless energy, shifting from room to room, taking in the photos he’s seen so many times before, the antique chair that is new to him, the man he knows all too well.

“Have you eaten, The Edge?” he asks, though it’s clear from his critical look that he already knows the answer is no. “You don’t want to end up all skin and bones now, do you?”

“Worried I’ll lose what little arse I have?”

“Something like that,” Bono says, his smile paper-thin. “How can you be a cowboy if you don’t have the right padding to withstand that hard saddle?”

“Why does that sound like a come on?”

“You tell me.”

Reluctantly, Edge leaves it there and heads into the kitchen to do as he’s told, though he puts minimal effort into making himself a sandwich. Ham, cheese, lettuce and mayonnaise—it’s about as boring as it gets. From the fridge, he retrieves the half-empty bottle of sparkling and carefully tucks it under his armpit, then snags a couple of glasses and does a balancing act straight on into the lounge.

Somehow, he doesn’t drop a damn thing, though he comes close to almost losing his sandwich. Predictably, his plight is overlooked by Bono, who is completely oblivious to the rest of the world as he searches through Edge’s music collection.

“What are you looking for?” Edge asks as he relieves himself of his cargo.

“Something,” Bono mutters.

“Oh. Okay then.”

It’s only after Edge has poured them both a drink and started on his sandwich that Bono makes his selection. Pink Floyd’s _Meddle_. An interesting choice, not one that Edge would have gone for on this particular evening, but he’s not going to complain. If Bono has found himself in such a mood then so be it—Edge will take him however he comes. Philosophical, experimental, loud, sweet. There are so many different options, so many sides to Bono, and Edge loves them all, even if a few of them drive him crazy from time to time.

It is intriguing, though not enough to question, that Bono skips right on past the first five songs to land on ‘Echoes’, nodding like he’s just done some great feat.

The song isn’t Edge’s favourite of theirs, but it doesn’t take him long to realize it’s the right choice for tonight. A melody that starts off light and gentle, that lulls the two of them closer to some semblance of calm. Or at least tries its damnedest.

Still, it’s near-impossible to contain Bono in full, to settle him when he’s got all the cogs whirring in his mind. As he listens, his fingers tap against his thigh, almost in time with the music but not quite. Soon enough, he takes off, drifting through the room like every inch of it fascinates him, right down to the skirting boards.

Edge just chews the last of his sandwich as he watches, certain that a change is soon to come. But until then, all he has is the music. And that’s fitting, isn’t it? After all, music is why they are together—at least, it was the start of it all. What are they without the same song dawning in their minds, a melody at their fingertips?

One day, they might have to find out, but not tonight. No, there are plans in place, an idea that is yet to be realized, one that has been slowly creeping into Edge’s thoughts this entire time. That reveals itself completely only when Bono glances over with that familiar expression, _and I am you and what I see is me_ surrounding them both as they share a look. _And do I take you by the hand_ , the song ponders, a question that, for Edge, has a single answer, one that has never and will never change. No matter what. And could he lead Bono through this land? Who knows for sure, but he’ll do whatever it takes.

It’s a song that Edge could take apart, piece by piece, and apply it to their lives, yet he’s not given the chance. Like magic, Bono materializes by the couch and promptly situates himself in Edge’s lap. He’s showered since the studio, smelling fresh and delicious without any trace of cigarette smoke, something that tends to linger after a trying day. The tip of his nose is still cool but his arms are warm as they snake around Edge’s neck to stay.

“I know what you need,” Bono mumbles against thin cotton before minutely turning his head, just enough to glide his lips along Edge’s skin.

“Oh, so this is about me, is it?”

“You deserve a night off. Something . . .”

It’s the word of the evening, apparently. “Something?”

Bono doesn’t respond. Instead, he buries his face further into Edge’s neck and sighs, a full-bodied sigh that courses through them both. In a way, it answers the question better than most words ever could. It certainly gets a rise out of Edge, causing the skin of his arms to prickle and the pressure of the day to situate itself elsewhere. Out of mind and into sight, lower and lower where the naked eye could spot a stirring if Bono wasn’t concealing it with that compact body of his. Can he hear himself when he starts off a rendezvous between them like this? When he makes it sound like Edge is the only one suffering?

This is for both of them. Isn’t it always?

“Have a drink first,” Edge suggests, like the fool that he is.

It’s not like he wants to delay the inevitable, because he certainly does not, no it’s simply that the wine has been poured and he knows how much that bottle cost. It would be such a shame to have to tip it all down the sink tomorrow morning. Or drink warm wine best served chilled. When did he turn into such a purist? And who was to blame for _that?_

“I don’t want a drink,” Bono counters, for perhaps the first time in his life. But he does part his lips when Edge brings a glass to his mouth, and takes a requisite sip, and then another, smiling like he has a secret once he’s finished swallowing. _Doesn’t want a drink, my arse_.

Between them, they finish off both glasses and then the bottle as the song builds and slows, builds and slows right on toward the climax, the static of it all remaining after it finally ends. And in the aftermath, there is nothing left to do but act.

With a couple of drinks in him, Edge finds a specific confidence within that is rightfully lacking when stone cold sober, sliding one hand around Bono’s back, the other beneath his knees before lifting them both up off the couch. It’s a move that Edge is sure he’ll regret tomorrow, but it’s worth it when Bono lets out a gasping laugh and then a muttered insult that hopefully is meant as an endearment.

They get as far as the next room before it all becomes too much, and something has to give. “Too many cheeseburgers,” Bono suggests wryly once his feet are back on the ground.

“Bullshit, just look at you.” Edge shakes his head. “More like I need to get my arse to the gym.”

Bono merely smiles in response before taking the lead and starting up the stairs, though he stops halfway to play the waiting game, crowding Edge like it’s a requirement that their shoulders be constantly bumping and their steps in sync for the rest of the journey.

Occasionally, Edge has found himself wondering whether Bono believes he’ll wither away into nothing if he doesn’t maintain frequent skin on skin contact with another human being. And Edge would never admit it, but there have been some nights when he found himself so desperately in love that he wished it to be true, yet narrowed down to just the two of them.

Remove the other human element, remove Ali even (and this reasoning is why he keeps his mouth shut), and leave Bono completely dependent on Edge. Skin to skin, _you’re the only one_ , waking up in a bed that’s always warm on both sides. To him, it sounds borderline possessive, fuelled by latent jealousy, perhaps, or something far darker—a side of Edge that he himself will never truly know or understand. But some nights, he can’t help but wonder what it would be like.

Tonight, it’s a thought that lingers at the forefront of his mind, that spikes in importance with each touch that passes between them. It doesn’t seem right, though, not when Bono is like this. Needy, oddly quiet, clinging to Edge once they are both naked as if he shares similar ideologies, but sweeter, without the dominance.

No, from the look of things, Bono simply wants to be touched exactly as he needs right now. He just wants to be fucked nice and slow.

“Edge,” he says when they’re both on the bed, skin to skin, spooning like they’ve skipped a step or two and are in the midst of coming down.

His brow is furrowed when he glances back, and he doesn’t expand on whatever thought is coursing through his mind. Yet the corner of his mouth twitches upwards at the sound of the lube bottle being opened, morphing into a full-fledged smile that has little staying power when Edge reaches between them with slick fingers. He makes slow work of it, rubbing and circling until Bono melts against him, letting out a sigh and then a murmured, “Come on,” an instruction that Edge gladly follows.

He doesn’t waste too much time on preparing them both, receiving no complaints nor feedback for his swiftness. It’s hard to know for sure which planet Bono is currently occupying, but it’s likely not this one. He’s too quiet, too still, but his mind, Edge suspects, is chugging away at a frenzied pace.

At some point tonight, they’ll have to have a conversation, one where Bono will dance around what’s bothering him and Edge will attempt to quell all the demons that remain unspoken. He knows this from experience, and maybe he should stop right now and initiate that heart to heart, get it all out in the open before resuming this with a lighter load on their shoulders, but he won’t. He doesn’t. To do so would do neither of them any good right now.

Instead, he eases in slow and revels in Bono’s usual reaction—a hitched breath, followed by a shaky exhale. He may not be occupying the same planet right now, but he’s still in orbit, like some omnipotent being.

It’s not a position that they often entertain, and Edge isn’t sure why exactly. He can easily pull Bono closer like this until they fit together perfectly, and wrap an arm around him, press a steady palm against his chest and feel his heartbeat as they lazily move as one. And Edge can kiss his shoulder and whisper in his ear (but does Edge have any inspiring words in him this evening, or is he just breathing curses and empty promises?) and think that this is exactly what is needed. And when he does all of this, it serves as a perfect reminder that there is some magic left in the world, magic that belongs only to them.

But like all good moments in life, it must come to an end. In a flash, Bono diverges from their chosen rhythm, rolling his hips at an increasing pace before letting out a frustrated, “Quit fucking around,” when Edge doesn’t immediately take the bait.

For a moment, he’s thrown for a loop. He often can’t read Bono when he gets like this, when he’s so mercurial. Generally, it’s just best to go with the flow.

And so he does, taking gentle out of the equation as he flips Bono onto his stomach and goes from there. Mostly, Edge prefers them to be face to face, to be allowed the chance to take in each changing expression, each reaction to every action of his. It’s the only time he lets his ego be inflated as much as he dares, as his fingertips dig into those powerful thighs, leaving white marks in their wake that gradually fade as Bono makes a show of it, moaning like he’s the star of a skin film, his voice like silk as he lets out _Edge Edge EdgeohJesus._

Yet tonight, it feels right this way. It shouldn’t. That connection between them is missing, a sharing of glances, of silent suggestions. Edge should hate this. But it’s right, it’s as it should be. Skin to skin, _you’re the only one_ echoing through his mind, a lie that he can believe and only wants to do so in the moment, in the now as he picks up the pace and allows that unknown side of him to take control of at least twenty percent (though it may be more, it might even be the entirety) of his mind, his body, as the pressure starts to build.

Not for the first time, he finds himself missing Bono’s long hair. How many moments in their lives did Edge take for granted having the opportunity to slide his fingers through those silky strands and pull exactly as he wants to now? But it does present him easier access to the back of Bono’s neck, where Edge kisses before giving in and biting maybe just once, maybe too many times to count, until that tripwire begins to rapidly fray inside of him and he takes Bono in hand, stroking him in time with each thrust—a punishing pace that brings out only the most wonderful sounds. A hoarse cry, a curse, a request or two that sounds a lot like begging, _harder, fuck me, Edge, ohgodohfuck_. 

 _Say it_ , Edge wants to demand. _Say it_. And in his mind, he does hear it, _you're the only one, you're the only one, you'retheonlyoneyou'rethe_ —

And just like that, it's overtaken by a high-pitched whine, and all he sees is a deep red behind his eyelids, and then there's nothing. 

As is often the case, it takes a few seconds, but then it passes, and they are left to deal with it all as best as they can.

Sometimes, this is his favourite part. 

It’s rare that Edge gets to enjoy the silence when he’s with Bono, which is a shame because he’s always thought that a shared quiet moment can be just as intense, as perfectly intimate, as a lengthy and soul-bearing conversation. But that’s the thing about Bono: it’s near-impossible to get him to shut up.

But he’s not talking now, and neither is Edge as their breath shudders together, in and out and in and out until they return to some semblance of calm. Skin to skin, _you could never be contained_ , coming down in a bed that’s cold on both sides yet red-hot in its centre. If Edge could stay like this for the rest of the night, he would. He’s only one of two, however, and eventually, when Bono comes back down to earth, he will prove to have the louder voice. After all, some things never change. And why should they? They’ve made it this far in life, just as they are.

It starts with a sigh, and then a tap against Edge’s hip, followed by a mumbled, “I don’t want to say you’re smothering me, love, but—”

“Don’t worry,” Edge cuts in. “You’re not the first person to say that to me.” Regrettably, he rolls until he is back onto dry, cool sheets. “Really, it barely registers anymore.”

“Well, I’m certainly not in the business of opening old wounds this evening.”

“Are you sure? Because I’ve got a few that still need healing.”

“Yeah? Any of them created by me?” Bono asks with a tired smile. His voice is cracking, barely above a whisper. They won’t talk about it though, not tonight. Not directly, anyway. Edge knows this from experience. He knows how to settle Bono’s mind, even if it’s only a temporary fix, one that does nothing to appease his own concerns.

“Definitely not. There’s nothing you could ever do to . . .” Edge shakes his head. “There’s nothing, B.”

“Don’t be so sure about that. We still have to get through the rest of our lives, Edge.”

“Bono—”

“Anyway,” Bono interrupts, without a follow-up. For an extended moment, an uneasy silence hangs over them, one that he breaks by letting out a choked laugh. “I think we might be in trouble.”

Every reassurance that comes to Edge’s mind feels dishonest, and, as a rule, he refuses to lie to Bono. So instead, he leans in to briefly rest his forehead against Bono’s temple before shifting down to kiss his throat, maybe just once, maybe too many times to count, until it begins to rumble against Edge’s lips and he has to laugh along. Truthfully, though, his heart isn’t in it, and neither is Bono’s.

“Do you really think that’s going to pacify me?”

“It was worth a shot,” Edge says. He’s hoping for another smile, but is disappointed when he receives exactly that. Try as he might, Bono just can’t fake it with those who know where to look. That smile doesn't even get close to reaching his eyes. “We’ll figure it out, B. We always do.”

“We always do,” Bono echoes, though he doesn’t look convinced.

But it can’t be a lie. Not now that it’s out in the open. Edge knows this from experience.


End file.
